Cupid's Contract

To Pee or Not To Pee

Eve didn't stay long enough to congratulate Drew on his promotion from flower boy to Pinocchio. She didn't need to schmooze with him while he proved he was a real boy and lied through his teeth.

She didn't even stay for cake.

Drew — Andrew was shaking hands with executives and she was out the door before she could overhear him boasting about the idiot HR girl who thought he was a delivery man. The foolish female who had complained to the boss's son about the boss and his son.

Son. How had she not known he was a he? Sandy wasn't the most masculine name around, but that didn't mean it was exclusively feminine... did it? Sure there was Sandy Cohen, of The O.C. fame, but that had always struck Eve as an oddity... and exception and not the rule.

Beads of sweat appeared over Eve's upper lip and she fought the urge to rip off her blazer. Anything to cool the heat that was engulfing her body. Heavens to Betsy, was this what Nana Roxy meant by a hot flash? Wasn't she too young for The Menopause? Yes, her success with men had been limited, abysmal even, but Eve wasn't quite ready to throw in the towel and embrace spinsterhood just yet.

Collapsing into her office chair, she fanned her face, praying for the air conditioning to work it's magic. Alone in the shared space, she flapped her arms about, determined to stop the dreaded arrival of the armpit sweat patch. Scrambling about for a piece of paper, intending to papier-mâché a fan, she spotted the crumpled ball from the flower delivery. Furiously, she unfolded it, reading the glib message again.

'... laundry baskets are really not my department...' That pervert had been in her laundry basket. Actually, hang on, that pervert had been in her house! Any feelings of mortification were quickly overpowered by indignation. Sure, he had probably seen her dirty clothes, her onesies that were only worn in the dark of night, as well as the ice-cream stained sheets that announced her inability to adult, but he had also been in her personal, private space. Her safe haven, the setting of her grandparents' happy life together, and he had just waltzed in, unhindered by the dead bolt or, it seemed, common decency.

'... I hope you don't get your hands too dirty...' What? What did that even mean? She glared at the plants, annoyed by their mere existence, never mind the fact that daisies were her favourite flower and usually brightened her day. No, today they were infuriating and literally spelling out her obituary. She was so fixated on obliterating the vegetation with her gaze alone, she almost missed the glint of red amongst the soil. '...don't get your hands too dirty...' He had buried the pendant in the dirt. That clever, contemptible, cherub.

As voices began to flood the open office, the conference room beginning to empty, she shoved her hands into the dirt, pulling at the heavy chain. It was buried rather deep and, as she tugged it out, clumps of dirt escaped with it, joining the compost already littering the floor. She was had just finished clasping it around her neck, tucking its begrimed stone underneath her clothes, when her cubicle-mates returned.

"You've made quite a mess, haven't you, Eve?" Polly was the first to return, already glaring at the soil as if it personally offended her. Her snub nose was pinched in displeasure, pointing to the sky like a beacon of snobbery and judgement.

Unlike Daniel, who was directly behind her, her hands were unburdened by slices of cake. Instead, she utilised them in expressing her disproval, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Did you want a slice of cake, Eve?" Daniel was holding a plate out to her, a telltale blob of icing smeared across his cheek. He was glancing nervously at the two females, already uncomfortable at the mere suggestion of conflict. It was a rare day that Polly did not take some issue with Eve but for once Eve herself was in no mood to be submissive.